


Dooku Captured, Pt 2

by DarthNickels



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dooku is a cranky Sith grandpa, Gen, Long talks in small rooms, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dooku is taken alive onboard the Invisible Hand, and Sidious' web is torn. The Sith Lord wonders if death might have been preferable to clumsy interrogation by Anakin Skywalker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dooku Captured, Pt 2

_Perhaps_ , Dooku thought, _I have been involved in-- and subsequently escaped-- worse situations than this._

                He looked down at the charred stumps of his wrists and revised his assessment. _No. This is easily the worst._

Something had gone terribly wrong onboard the _Invisible Hand_. There had been a _plan_. The rhythm of the battle, the “capture” of the Chancellor, it had all been running so smoothly, and then—

                _The heat of two lightsabers crossed at his throat, sudden and utterly inescapable. Philosophically, Dooku considered himself ready to die. He was certainly no stranger to near death experiences; he’d been at war for years, after all. But somehow he found himself wholly unprepared for this particular scenario. Skywalker’s eyes burned bright blue, like two ruthless stars, an almost childlike sneer of gleeful vengeance plastered across his face._

_No escape._

_Dying here, betrayed by his Master, at the hand of a knight who was really just a boy, seemed grotesque to him, so ultimately pointless. The sacrifices he had made, the steps he had taken in the name of idealism, all of it came to nothing here between his own blade and Skywalker’s._

I’m not ready _, he thought._

No one ever is _, he imagined a voice like Qui-Gon’s replying._

_And then, something too stupid to be a miracle happened. Kenobi crawled beneath the rubble of their duel, groaning and rubbing the back of his head. “Ah, Anakin,” he’d said, unable to stand without swaying. “No, no, stay where you are—I see you’ve gone and unhanded our friend the Count.” The three of them—Skywalker, Dooku, and Palpatine—stared at Obi-Wan in disbelief._

_“I believe I am fairly concussed,” his padawan’s padawan admitted._

                The four of them made it back to the planet’s surface in just a fraction of Grievous’ once-proud flagship. Despite the fact that his situation presented a number of much more urgent issues, Dooku couldn’t help but be annoyed that the cyborg general had escaped when he had not.

_I suppose the one thing I have left is my pride._

                Now he was being paraded in front of the incessant flash of holocameras, the fiery agony of his severed hands eating through his shock. Sidious was in his rightful place behind the podium, eloquent as always despite the sudden collapse of his carefully laid web. Dooku wondered if anyone else could see the way the Chancellor’s eyes flashed with irritation for a fraction of a second at every question, or noticed the way his grip on the podium was just a hair too tight. _None_ of them suspected; not a single one. The puppet master was right there, close enough to touch, and the Jedi couldn’t see through the cloud of darkness. Dooku supposed he should have felt smug, but for some reason he only could only muster a kind of vague condescension.

Skywalker was given a microphone and gave a few rambling, barely-coherent statements. Dooku had enough strength left to feel embarrassed on the boy’s behalf.

                _He is a fool_ , he thought, watching the boy verbally stumble and flail in disbelief.

 _That fool would have killed me_. Dooku tried to draw on the Force to stop himself from shaking with relief, but the Force was far away from him now.  He was consumed by one thought: he was _alive_. Only an hour ago that insolent puppy had been bearing down on him, a harbinger of Republic justice—

                One of the holoreporters cried out in alarm, pointing to Kenobi—who now had blood trickling from his left nostril as well as under his scalp. Mace Windu gave a terse send-off to the Galaxy at large before herding the beloved Team off the press platform, into the Temple. Dooku was flanked by what seemed like an entire phalanx of Temple guards, and given a brusque shove in the same direction. He looked back, and for a moment he and Sidious locked eyes.

 _Your future is clouded,_ apprentice. _I no longer foresee you among the shapers of the future_ , Sidious snarled in his head. _Will you run back to the Jedi in an attempt to hide from me?_

                Yan Dooku, heir to the throne of Serenno, was many things, but “receptive to threats” simply wasn’t one of them. He straightened, arching an eyebrow.

 _I’m not dead yet,_ Master _._

                “Come, Dooku,” Yoda admonished, somewhere at his feet. The Grand Master of the Jedi Order watched him with an unreadable expression. “Have much to discuss, we do.”

* * *

 

                The Jedi weren’t _hospitable_ , exactly, but Dooku supposed there were worst places to be held prisoner. He certainly preferred the extensive medbay in the belly of the Temple to the filthy pirate’s nest on Florrum—though, in a cruel twist of fate, both scenarios left him imprisoned with Kenobi and Skywalker. Walking down the Temple halls, subjected to the cool stares of his once-compatriots, had been an experience he would have gladly foregone. Being restrained to a hospital bed, receiving his new prosthetic hands with a heavily concussed Kenobi on one side and a silent, moody Skywalker had been singularly unpleasant.

                 He’d been promptly relocated to a prison cell in the deepest part of the Temple, with nothing to do but diligently perform the exercises he’d been given to strengthen the neural connection between his organic body and his new prosthetics. It was an intolerably slow process, but with each slip he reminded himself of how poorly Skywalker had likely dealt with his own new arm following their duel on Geonosis, and the resulting mental image kept him moving forward.

                He was reliably touching each finger on his left hand to his thumb by the time the door slid open. The Jedi Council, sans Kenobi, filed into his cell, arranging themselves in a semi-circle in front of his bunk. Dooku suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at their theatricality.

                The Grand Master had brought his own seat, naturally, and settled himself into his hoverchair with his clawed hands tucked beneath his chin. “Anything to say, have you?”

                Dooku gave in and actually did roll his eyes. “Crude,” he remarked. “You’ve had three years to remember how to carry out a proper interrogation.”

                “Enough,” Mace Windu stepped forward, a cold sheet of marble in the Force despite his fierce expression. If Dooku could have any Jedi still living an acolyte, Windu would have been the first, second, and third choice on that list. For years, Dooku had been dying to pick the man’s brain about Vaapaad. Now, of course, wasn’t the time. “It’s in your best interest to talk, Dooku.”He threatened.

                “Why?” Dooku asked. It was so _easy_ to needle these so-called Masters. Oh, they didn’t show it, the way Skywalker did, but he could sense how they rankled.

                “We could easily have you relocated to less… _hospitable_ quarters.” The Order’s second in command could be terribly unsubtle.

                “I suppose you could put me on a ship bound for the Citadel,” Dooku agreed, amiably, “but given the poor showing of Masters here, I doubt you have enough Jedi to staff it. It would be terribly embarrassing if you gave my armies the exact incentive they needed to overrun your prison yet _again_.”

The Masters before him shifted imperceptibly, uncomfortable. Dooku paused, mock-considering. “On the other hand, you could elect to put me in the Prism…. _oh_ ,” he said, thoroughly enjoying the sudden tense silence in the room, “you thought I didn’t know about that? I most assuredly do, though there are many among the Confederacy of Independent Systems that do not. With whom have I shared this information?” He paused again, laying it on thick. “I’m afraid you may never know.”

                “That’s _enough_ ,” Windu cut him off, harshly. He was furious, but kept the emotion tightly bridled, like a half-broken steed. Such a wasted opportunity for the Sith. “It would behoove you to speak now, before we are forced to consider alternative solutions.”

                Dooku had seen this game played before, when he was a padawan out in the field. Two children ran towards one another, or in the direction of a precipitous drop, and the last to turn away in fright was the loser. As a padawan he’d found the game dull and brutish. Now, he relished it.

                But his fun was ruined, as it usually was these days, by Skywalker bursting through the door. “I’m sorry I’m late,” the young knight declared, in a way that clearly said he wasn’t sorry at all.

                “Skywalker,” Windu was somehow even more displeased than he was. “Prisoner interrogation of this level is only permitted for those with the rank of _Master_.”

                Skywalker actually went red in the face. _Remarkable_. “The Chancellor requested my presence here,” he shot back, with naked frustration. “The Senate has a right to be involved in the interrogation of high-profile captives—“

                “The Sith fall under the jurisdiction of the Jedi and the Jedi Order alone,” Windu cut him off, smoothly. “If the Chancellor wishes to dispute the foundation principles of the Republic—“

                “That won’t be necessary,”Dooku interrupted them both, pleasantly. Skywalker’s appearance had given him inspiration—a wild plan. Truth be told, even he wasn’t sure what he was doing—the euphoria of relief still laid heavily on his mind, skewing his judgement. But in Skywalker’s entrance the Sith could almost see a thread of the Force, singing to him, calling _this is your way out_ , and he grasped it. “Master Yoda, Master Windu,” he inclined his head with false humility, “esteemed members of the Jedi Council—I have no desire to speak with you. At _all_.” He met each of their gazes, defiantly. He was captured, but he wasn’t beaten.

 “I will give the information you seek,” he finished, magnanimously, “but only to Skywalker.”

                Windu’s bone deep frustration, Yoda’s intense concern, and Skywalker’s confusion where each like screeching klaxons in the Force, clashing with one another and coloring the physical silence of his cell. He savored the chaos.

                “Masters,” Agen Kolar spoke, disrupting the three-way power struggle dominating the room. “I have serious questions and reservations.” Grand Master Yoda rested his chin on his gimmer stick, pondering.

                “Skywalker,” he spoke, finally, “any insight into Dooku’s request, have you?”

_I am right here. You could simply ask me._

                “No, Master Yoda,” Skywalker gave Dooku a look filled with poisonous hate. “I don’t.”

                “Did we share nothing aboard the Invisible Hand?” he purred in response. To his glee, Skywalker paled—too imperceptibly for the other Jedi to notice. _That’s right_ , Dooku thought. _Wouldn’t the Council be interested to know how_ easily _you came under the sway of the Dark Side, how_ close _you came to murdering an unarmed prisoner?_

“Time is of the essence here,” Saesee Tiin pointed out. “You know as well as I do that Dooku is a man of his word. If he has something useful to share with Skywalker, then let him. It’s not the first intelligence gathering we’ve asked young Anakin to do.” For some reason, this made Skywalker go even paler, a white tinged with green. Dooku found that _very_ interesting.

                “I suggest we take this conversation elsewhere,” Windu said, eyes flashing. Yoda nodded, and just as dutifully as they entered, the esteemed High Council of the Jedi Order filed out into the hallway of Dooku’s cell. Skywalker the was the last to go—he paused at the door, his gaze lingering on Dooku. If the Count had to guess, he would say Skywalker looked afraid.

                _And isn’t that intriguing?_ He thought, as the ray shields closed behind the young knight. 

* * *

 

                It was difficult for Dooku to gauge the passing of time, as his prison had neither a chrono nor a window, but he estimated it was about three or four hours before Skywalker stormed back into his cell, alone. He pushed a small table into the center of the room, slammed a holorecorder down on the surface before folding his arms in front of his chest.

                “Start talking, _Count_.”

                Dooku almost pitied the boy. “Has that ever worked?” he asked, in a patronizing tone.

                Where Mace Windu’s anger was fierce but tightly bound, Skywalker’s was feral—Dooku was reminded of the great aquariums on Mon Cala, where one could view huge, toothy beasts from the deep. All that separated the thrashing monsters from the spectators with the thinnest pane of trasnparisteel. One misplaced swing of a massive, armored tail and the fury of the ocean would come crashing down on those who dared to provoke it.

                Dooku had already survived one such provocation. Skywalker clenched his jaw.

                “Where’s the rest of the fleet?” Skywalker ground out. “Give us coordinates and the locations of all droid factories.”

                Dooku leaned back, hands folded in front of him. “But what will you give me?” he asked, serenely.

                “Did you forget where you are?” Skywalker snapped, sharply gesturing to the small room around them. “You are our _prisoner_. You don’t even deserve to be _alive_ right now—“

                Dooku ignored Skywalker’s ranting. There was the faintest smudge of red on Skywalker’s jaw, a smear on just under the edge of the bone, caught his eye. Blood? No, it was brilliant, not the rust color of dried blood from a battle hours previous. It reminded him of a woman’s lip color—

                Oh. _Oh_. Dooku remembered how the Senator from Naboo had seemed distracted throughout the press conference, her eyes far away beneath her politician’s mask. She’d shot a veiled glance at Skywalker and smiled-- like she had a secret.

                It was unlikely he would have a chance to berate his intelligence officers for failing him so catastrophically, but their reports were clearly lacking. Of course he’d observed Amidala and Skywalker working together to unseat the CIS, mooning over each other like children, but this smacked of _Code-breaking._ Attachment, the ultimate taboo.

                “What are you smiling about?” Skywalker snapped.

                “Turn off the recorder,” Dooku replied, “and I’ll tell you.”

                Skywalker frowned. Dooku rolled his eyes.

                “Surely the Council does not believe that you are such a child you would _forget_ vital intelligence about the war effort?” he needled. Skywalker’s face turned stormy, but he complied.

                “Now _talk_.” He grated.

                “Would you have a seat?” Dooku asked, “as if we were civilized people?” The young knight’s irritation was mounting by the second, but he pulled a chair to his side of the table and fell into it.  

                “Reciprocity is the way of the Galaxy,” Dooku began. His hands were still cuffed together, and he set them on the edge of the table. “If you want something from me, I shall have to receive something in return.”

                “I’m not giving you anything,” the Jedi snarled. Dooku raised his hands in a placating gesture.

                “Oh, I don’t want _things_ ,” he replied, smoothly. “Just some information.”

                “I don’t know if you’re just delusional or _stupid,_ but you aren’t—“

 “How are things between you and the Senator?” He interrupted. Skywalker went pale. Dooku pushed harder. “Your _ladylove_?”

                He’d miscalculated. The beast broke the glass. Skywalker made a fist and Dooku felt an invisible hand wrap around his throat, lifting him out of his chair. Darkness rolled off the Republic’s golden boy like crashing waves.

                “What do you know about Padme?” Skywalker hissed. “If you or your men come near her—“ the hand on Dooku’s throat tightened even further.

                “Fool…” Dooku wheezed. “They’ll…notice…if you…kill me…”

 But Skywalker was beyond reason. His eyes blazed with hate, and for a moment Dooku didn’t blame Sidious at all for wanting to replace him with this terrifying creature. The Republic’s hero would fall, so ripe and ready into Palpatine’s clutches, and serve as a sword of judgement in the hands of the Sith. At last, the spider would have a catch worthy of his web. It seemed Dooku was fated to die that Skywalker may rise, born again as a ravenous monster of the darkness—

 Then the Jedi seemed to come back to himself, and he dropped Dooku in horror. The Sith landed back on his bunk with a crash.

                For a few tense seconds, neither of them said anything—Dooku tried vainly to catch his breath, with Skywalker also taking ragged, uneven gasps, as if _he_ was the one who’d been strangled.

                “I hope you realize,” Dooku broke the silence, hoarsely, “the price of my information has increased exponentially now that you are also paying for my silence.”

                “What do you want?” Skywalker asked, failing to hide the tremor in his voice.

                Dooku paused, thinking for a moment. “Talking to you alone is tiresome,” he said, finally. “Next time you come, bring me something…stimulating.”

* * *

 

Skywalker frowned, staring down at the holograms in front of him. He’d dug up a dejarik board from somewhere in the Temple, brought it to Dooku’s cell, and had proceeded to  _spectacularly_ lose three game in a row. 

“This, from one of the Republic’s greatest tacticians?” Dooku had snapped at him. Skywalker looked down at the board in surprise, and made a small sound like “ _oh_ ”. The fourth game was proceeding decidedly in his favor.

“I could not help but notice your obnoxious little apprentice was nowhere to be seen during our capture,” Dooku commented, as Skywalker contemplated his move. The Jedi flinched, taken off-guard.

“That’s none of your business,” he snapped. He made a reckless move, taking Dooku’s pawn.

“Sacrifice is a necessity in a time of war,” Dooku replied, moving in to close his trap. Skywalker swore as he lost another piece. “If you want to learn anything useful today, then I must learn something useful as well.”

The younger knight bit his lower lip, not quite meeting Dooku’s gaze. “Ahsoka…is no longer part of the Jedi Order,” he said, with deep bitterness.

“Oh?” Dooku raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Skywalker muttered. “She’s just…gone, alright? She’s not fighting in the war anymore, so why should you care?”

“I happen to have a great interest in Jedi who have left with the Order.” Dooku cocked his head. “You do remember that I used to be one of them?”

Anakin stood abruptly, gripping the sides of the table like he wanted to throw it. The ever-present rage came shrieking to the surface. “Ahsoka is _nothing_ like you!” he hissed.

“That _is_ a shame,” he remarked, moving another piece. “Then she is just as blind to the hypocrisy of the Order as you are.” Skywalker looked up at him with a kind of mute horror. He’d struck a nerve. “Or is she?”

 Skywalker clenched his jaw tight. He was _dying_ to voice his frustration with the Council, but good sense kept him from doing so in front of the enemy. Dooku filed this interesting tidbit away for later. The Count wouldn’t give up just yet.

“Perhaps it was _your_ hypocrisy that drove her away,” Dooku speculated, idly. “Does the Council know you’re violating the Code in such an enormous way? Does the Chancellor know you’re keeping one of his Senators as a _mistress_ -?”

“How _dare_ you,” The Jedi seethed. “If you talk about Padme that way—“ Skywalker leaned in across the table, so he and the Count were almost nose-to-nose, “—I will _end_ you. I will tear you apart with my bare hands, and throw you out with the rest of the garbage. I will—“

“Does _Kenobi_ know how deep your attachment goes?” Dooku asked, nonplussed, cutting off the stream of threats. Anakin shut his mouth, hard enough for his teeth to click together, and looked away. He fell back into his seat with a _thump_.

“He doesn’t know at _all_ ,” Dooku leaned forward onto the table, pulling his elbows up (though his hands were still bound). He rested his chin on his new hands. “What a mess you’ve made for yourself, Skywalker.” The boy stared at the wall, jaw clenched, arms folded across his chest, nostrils flaring.

“Is it worth it?” Dooku pressed. “Throwing away a chance at greatness for—“

“It is,” Skywalker cut him off. He met Dooku’s gaze, looking him straight in the eye. “But someone like _you_ will never know.”

He took advantage of the Sith Lord’s brief silence to stand, knocking his chair over. “I’m done here-- I’m leaving. I’m not here to play with you, _Count_ —I have a war to win.” He turned on his heel, full of self-righteous fire, and headed for the door.

“Skywalker,” Dooku called, just before the Jedi reached the ray shields. He paused. “I have reason to believe General Grievous has retreated to the Utapau system. He should remain there for several days while the rest of the fleet regroups.”

The Jedi whipped around, staring at Dooku in disbelief. “Why would you tell me that?” he asked, as if Dooku hadn’t meticulously spelled out the terms of their arrangement beforehand. “If that’s true-- we could stop the war…”

Dooku heaved a heavy sigh. For all his potential, the boy was hopeless. “When you return tomorrow, bring something for me to read,” he said, graciously ignoring Skywalker’s uniquely stupid question. “A novel, perhaps. I grow tired of current events.”

Skywalker stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. The Count revealed nothing, and he turned to leave once again. “Oh, and Skywalker?” Dooku let the last silence draw out an uncomfortably long time.

“Have someone _else_ pick it out,” he finished, pleasantly.

* * *

 

Once he was about a meter clear of Dooku’s cell Anakin took off at a sprint, flying through the halls of the Temple. He slid into the Council chamber, where he found Master Yoda and Master Windu deep in conversation. He relayed the news to them, breathlessly, without even a cursory bow.

“A powerful weapon against the Seperatist, the Count has given us,” Yoda said, contemplative. “Why chosen were you, to be the bearer of such news?”

Anakin flushed hot— _why shouldn’t I be_?- before acquiescing it was a fair question.  “I think Dooku wants to get me back for beating him,” he answered, more or less honestly. “He likes trying to play games with me.” Mace raised an eyebrow.

“You think the leader of the Separatist movement does anything for such petty reasons?” he asked. Anakin was familiar that tone of condescending disbelief. He _hated_ it.

“You talk to him, then,” he snapped, angrily. “ _Master_.”

“Sense truth in Dooku’s statement, I do,” Yoda cut in, heading off a fight. “To Utapau, our best duelist should go.” Windu shook his head.

“Master Kenobi won’t be released from the healers for another twenty-four hours at minimum,” he replied. “They want to monitor his concussion.” Mace considered for a moment, drawing deeply on the Force. “I will go.”

“Certain, you are?” Yoda asked. Windu nodded.

“You are needed on Coruscant, Grandmaster,” he said, deferentially. “And Skywalker has his own mission to complete.” With a jolt, Anakin remembered his orders to spy on the Chancellor. He felt the familiar nausea creep back up on him.

“Sense the wisdom of this decision, I do,” Yoda acquiesced. “May the Force be with you.” Mace bowed and swept out of the room. Anakin was alone with the wizened old Jedi. Yoda gave him a careful look.

“Taken great interest in you, both the Chancellor and the Sith Lord have,” he said, evenly. Anakin flushed.

“I don’t know what game Dooku’s playing, Master, but I don’t like,” Anakin admitted.

“A trap, you think this might be?” Yoda asked. Anakin shrugged. “Perhaps follow the advice of your own master, you should.”

“Spring it? But how? I don’t know what he _wants_ ,” Anakin grated, frustrated. Yoda’s ears drooped slightly

“Help you there, I am afraid I cannot,” the old master said. “A long time, has it been, since my old padawan and I saw eye-to-eye.” Anakin felt guilty—he had forgotten there was history between Dooku and Yoda.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he offered, quietly. Yoda shook his head.

“A long time,” he repeated. “In the past, it is now.” He looked upward at Anakin, meeting the boy’s eyes. “Something troubling you, is there?”

 _I can’t spy on the Chancellor. It’s not right. It’s against the law, and he’s my_ friend _. I don’t have so many left—where’s Ahsoka? She’s been gone for months and she hasn’t commed me one. She might be dead. Obi-Wan almost died. What if he doesn’t make it to the end of the war? We’re so close. We’re_ so _close. Dooku knows about Padme. He’s going to tell everyone. I should have killed him—no! No I came so close, it was so bad, but the Chancellor was right, he was too dangerous to be kept alive, he could tell everyone about Padme and ruin her life—our life—_

_Our baby—_

Anakin shook his head, tripling his mental shields. “No, master,” he lied. “I’m just ready to see this war end.”

* * *

 

The Chancellor sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, absorbing all Anakin had told him. “You are absolutely right, my boy,” he said, “the Count’s behavior is _most_ unusual.”

“It’s like…” Anakin trailed off, frustrated, “like he knows he can’t defeat me in a duel anymore, and now he’s just trying to talk me to death.”

The Chancellor looked at him with a perfectly blank politician’s stare, and Anakin’s heart sank— _even the Chancellor thinks that’s a stupid thing to say_ —but then he smiled, gently. 

“One can never be sure when dealing with the likes of Count Dooku,” he replied. “It _is_ most unusual that he revealed the location of General Grievous’ secret lair.” There was a note of tension underlying Palpatine’s words. _The war has been just as hard on the Senate as it had the Jedi_ , Anakin thought.

He shrugged. “Maybe he’s just a traitor. Back him into a corner and he’ll sell everyone out for a chance to save his own skin,” he didn’t bother to hide his disgust.

“Then the Count is clearly out of his depth with his little game,” the Chancellor said, smiling once again. “I know of no one as loyal to the Republic and all it stands for you as you are, Anakin.” His smile dimmed somewhat. “Some days, it feels as though you are the only true supporter left…”

Anakin squirmed. _If only he knew what they asked me to do_ …“The war will be over soon,” he said, trying to be reassuring. “Master Windu will defeat Grievous, and from there it should be easy to rout the last of the clankers.”

“Yes, Master Windu is a powerful warrior,” the Chancellor murmured. “But do you think he will surrender his army so easily once the Separatists are neutralized?”

“The Jedi have no need for armies,” Anakin answered, automatically, but something about the Chancellor’s words wormed their way under his skin, making him uneasy.

“They certainly do not,” the Chancellor agreed, “but I fear the Grandmaster and the rest of the Council feel the principles of our government—the checks and balances at the heart of a democracy— are simply obstacles to greater power.” He shook his head, sadly. “I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

“No!” Anakin moved closer, scooting his chair nearer to Palpatine’s desk. “You’ve been such a good friend to me, all these years…” _And I’m betraying that friendship, even now. I’m worse than Dooku._

“Ah, dear boy,” he said, with a sad smile. “It’s a heavy burden for your young shoulders. I fear I am forcing your hand, dividing your loyalties—“

“My loyalties aren’t divided,” Anakin replied, stubbornly. “They are only to the Republic, and that means to you.” It was true. He knew where he stood, mission or no. He could go back, tell the Council they were wrong, and be free and clear of this mess before--

Anakin’s comm chimed loudly. He looked away to check it, and didn’t see Palpatine indulging in a predatory grin.

“Sorry, Chancellor,” Anakin huffed, standing and shoving his comm back in his robes. “I have to run by the Archives,” he rolled his eyes, and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Dooku wants a _book_.”

* * *

 

Dooku stared up at the ceiling, frowning. The rattling in the vents was almost certainly an agent of Palpatine, come to kill him. This was going to be annoying.

Of course, he could see the logic behind Sidious’s decision to send an assassin after him. His continued existence would be a major weak point in the master plan, after all. But somehow, watching the BX-series commando slide through the grate and begin to reassemble itself, the Count was disappointed. There was a distinct lack of _finesse_ in this move. In a way, he expected more from his Master—or his former master, given the severance package before him.

It _was_ clever to send a droid after him rather than an organic. With no Force signature, it was unlikely any of the Jedi would sense there was trouble until it was too late. Well, too late only in a rhetorical sense—Dooku hadn’t made it this far to be taken out of the game by a _droid_ , of all things.

  He surged to his feet, sending his table flying at the BX, but it merely broke to pieces against the durasteel body of his assassin. The droid squeezed off a number of blaster shots in rapid succession, but Dooku was faster that the screaming bolts of light. He caught a blast directly in his Force-cuffs, and they fell from his wrists. He smiled wolfishly.

He struck the droid, the clash of his prosthetic hands sent the assassin’s weapon flying. Now they were equal—hand-to-hand, the machine and the Sith met each other again and again. It was a dance Dooku knew well, though he dearly wished for his lightsaber so he could slice the would-be cutthroat to pieces and be done with it. His prosthetics were durable but clumsy, and he could find no purchase with which to tear the droid apart. He slipped—just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to through their dance out of balance and give the droid the advantage—

Dooku started backwards as Skywalker’s blade erupted from the droid’s chest—stopping only centimeters from the Count’s own flesh. In a few seconds and a flash of blue the droid lay in countless gently-smoking pieces on the ground, the light gone from its photoreceptors.

“That’s twice I’ve spared your worthless life, _Dooku_ ,” Skywalker boasted, clipping his lightsaber back to his belt with unbearable smugness.

“One day, Skywalker, you will be taught humility,” Dooku replied frostily, idly dusting the front of his tunic. “And I will pay dearly for the chance to be there when it happens.” The brash little fool only scoffed.

“Keep dreaming, Count,” he muttered. “You’ll die of old age before you ever get out of here,” he looked Dooku over, pursing his lips, “Not that that will take very long. Maybe the next droid sent to kill you should just shout ‘boo’ really loud instead.”

Dooku massaged his temples while Skywalker punched a frequency into his comm, _entirely_ too pleased with his quip (if one could call it that). _If I didn’t need you for my plan I would make you_ swallow _that insolent tongue._

The hologram in Skywalker’s hand flickered to life before he could say anything else impertinent. “Master Yoda,” he said, inclining his head. “There’s trouble in the cell block. Someone sent an assassin droid after Dooku.”

“Take care of the problem, I trust you did?”

“Obviously,” he said, with the same cocksure grin plastered on every piece of Republic propaganda. Up close, Dooku noted, it looked a little thin and worn.

“Hmmm,” the Grand Master closed his eyes for a brief second, considering. “Stay with Dooku, you should—“

“What?! For how—“

“--until completed a sweep of the Temple, the remaining masters have,” Yoda admonished. “A threat to the entire Order, this security breach is. Vital to ending the war, Dooku may be.” He fixed Skywalker with _that_ stare—the one that said ‘know you are wrong, you do, and that right, I am. Now admit it, you must’. Dooku was thoroughly enjoying the chance to see someone else on the receiving end of that stare, for once.

Then he shook himself. The past was of no use to those living in the present. The distance between his time as a padawan and now might as well have been lightyears.

The look that had quelled centuries’ worth of padawans had no effect of Skywalker, it seemed. All his touted bravery stemmed more from ignorance of danger than actual valor. “I have an audience with the Chancellor,” he pushed back, “I can’t just—“

“Into lockdown, the Temple must go,” Yoda replied, serenely. “Unable to leave, you are, even if wanted to, you did.”

“But--!”

“Initiating lockdown sequences, I am now,” Yoda cut him off. “If more to say, have you, then until later, you must wait.” Skywalker sputtered, but the comm went dead in his hand as sirens signaled the dampening of all communications. The cell was plunged into darkness for the barest fraction of a second before the emergency lighting kicked in. The dim glowbulbs cast deep shadows across Skywalker’s face, making his petulant frown seem…sinister, somehow.

“The dejarik board has full power cells,” Dooku offered, magnanimously. Skywalker, with characteristic ungratefulness, tightened his prosthetic hand around his comm so hard it broke.

* * *

 

Despite all the progress made in previous matches, Skywalker refused to start a dejarik game. Instead, he threw a number of datapads at Dooku before hurling himself to the floor in a sulk disguised as meditation. Why Skywalker chosen to attempt to meditate to pass the time was beyond Dooku—he was _awful_ at it. Less than ten minutes in and he was already fidgeting, trying to watch the captive Sith out of the corner of his eye.

Dooku pretended not to notice, and instead let him stew for over an hour. Skywalker had provided only tomes of Jedi maxims and canon for his perusal (or maybe this was the work of Jocasta Nu, hateful woman), but he would never grow bored of watching the little fool squirm.

But, despite his enjoyment, there was still work to be done.

“What business,” Dooku began, breaking the silence, “does a knight barely grown out of his padawan braid have seeing the Chancellor?”

“None of yours, Count,” the Jedi shot back, folding his arms across his chest.

“After all we’ve shared?” Dooku asked, mock-hurt. Skywalker only snorted, angrily, and didn’t reply. Fine. Dooku had been gracious enough to extend an offer of stimulating conversation, only to be rudely rebuffed.

He was a man of mercy. He would try again.

“For a Jedi, you are exceptionally loyal to politicians,” he said, not looking up from his datapad. “I assume your interest in Senator Amidala is— _extracurricular_ , shall we say—“

“You _won’t_ say, and if you do I will make sure you never talk again,” Skywalker growled.

“Very well,” Dooku gave an elegant shrug, more than willing to drop _that_ particular subject, “but it doesn’t explain your devotion to the Chancellor. Surely you have no political favor to curry, living only to serve the will of the Force?”

The Jedi scoffed. “The Chancellor is my _friend_. You wouldn’t understand it, because your whole life is devoted to selfishness.”

Dooku raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re a _Sith Lord_ ,” Skywalker had fallen out of his meditative pose, but still sat on the floor, looking up at Dooku with a totally undeserved sanctimonious air. “You care only about power, and nothing for the people you have to step over to get it.”

The Count sighed. “And how do you think the Chancellor rose to the highest office in the Galaxy? By asking for it nicely?”

Skywalker’s eyes blazed furiously. “The Chancellor was _elected_ ,” he snarled. “He was chosen because he’s the wisest and greatest leader we have! Nobody voted for _you_!”

Dooku was actually speechless. This—this somehow seemed unfair. Did Sidious even have to _try_? Skywalker settled back into his corner, radiating smugness—he thought he’d actually struck a blow.

“The Chancellor is gracious and kind, and only lives to serve the needs of the Republic—even when the people are _ungrateful_ ,” he went on. “They don’t realize just how badly they need a firm hand to guide them—“

“And do you?” Dooku asked, in spite of himself.

“Do I what?”

“Do you,” Dooku set the datapad down on his bunk, leaning forward, “need a firm hand to guide you?”

He’d been trying to get a rise out of the Jedi, but Dooku was surprised by the white-hot intensity of Skywalker’s rage. The knight surged to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.

“You think you’re better than me?” he snarled.

That Dooku did went without saying. But it was unlikely anyone would come to rescue him should Skywalker give in totally to his rage, and he had no intention of dying for a cheap jibe. He opted for silence.

“You’re _not_ ,” Skywalker went on, taking a step closer. His eyes had an almost feverish glaze. “You’re here because I put you here. If I wanted you dead, you would be—I could crush you here and now—“ he snapped his fingers for emphasis “--like _that_. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m—I’m still--”

Skywalker turned away, resting his head against the cold metal of the cell wall. That he had to physically pull himself away from attacking an unarmed prisoner spoke volumes about the lack of discipline in his training. Dooku dearly wanted to ask “still what?” but refrained—he would have to have discipline for both of them.

“Did Kenobi decide you simply didn’t _need_ to know the basics of self-mastery?” Dooku asked instead. Skywalker raised his head—irritated, but not murderous. “There are _younglings_ who do not fail at meditation as completely as you do.”

“Leave Obi-Wan out of this,” Skywalker retorted, dodging the question. “He’ll probably get around to interrogating you himself, sooner or later. You two can commiserate about my _failings_ then.”

There was something about the bitterness in Skywalker’s voice that gave the Sith Lord pause.

“So you admit to just barely meeting the standards of the Order? Have the Jedi fallen so far as to send half-trained padawans like you to fight their battles?”

Skywalker scowled at that. “Why do you care so much about Order? You left—and you _hate_ me and Obi-Wan. So what if we’re failures?” Skywalker’s flippancy stirred something in the old Sith.

“Master Kenobi should know better,” Dooku bit out, “because he was trained by _Qui-Gon Jinn_ —and I spent too many years of my life training _him_ to see our line come to this.”

 It was difficult to say who was more surprised by the passion of his words—Skywalker or Dooku himself. The Jedi’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly recovered and tilted his head back, considering.

“I don’t see it,” he finally said, after a long pause.

“See what?”

“You and Qui-Gon,” he replied. “You’re not like him at all.”

Dooku rolled his eyes. “I was his teacher, not his father. You hardly resemble Kenobi in temperament.”

“And you’re the one who said I was a bad student.” Skywalker shrugged. He slid back into his corner, elbows resting on his knees, chin on his hands. He seemed to be turning something over in his head.

 “What was he like?” he asked, after a long pause.

“Who?”

“Master Qui-Gon,” Skywalker’s gaze was clear and blue, brilliant like his blade. “What was he like?”

Dooku suddenly felt very uncomfortable about the direction this conversation was taking. He didn’t like being put on the back foot by _Anakin Skywalker_ , of all people.

“Why don’t you ask Kenobi?” he tried to brush the knight off, gruffly.

“That wouldn’t be fair.” 

Even Dooku, former padawan of the notoriously esoteric Grand Master, found this answer impenetrable. Skywalker offered no clarification—he just continued to watch him, unblinking, unrelenting.

The count _could_ ignore him, and simply go back to his book. He had nothing to gain from this line of questioning. But then…what was it he’d told Skywalker? _Reciprocity is the way of the Galaxy_. He was many things, but not a hypocrite. There was no harm in giving Skywalker otherwise useless information.

“Qui-Gon asked questions,” he said, finally. “Far more than was appropriate for a padawan of his age. Rhetorical, hypothetical—and no subject was off limits. I understand his tendency to question continued into his knighthood, and earned him no small amount of ill-will from the Council.”

A brief smile passed over Skywalker’s face, almost too quickly for Dooku to notice. “I remember that much,” he said, fondly.  “Even back then, the Council didn’t like me. Not even Obi-Wan did. Qui-Gon was the one who fought for me to be trained.” Dooku’s mask must have slipped, because Skywalker was pulled abruptly into the present.

“You didn’t know that, did you?”

No, but he could see it easily in his mind’s eye—Qui-Gon, with that ridiculous long hair he’d worn in his last days, hands tucked in his sleeves, standing tall and alone against the hide-bound ignoramuses of the Jedi Council. Dooku would not admit to being moved by that picture.

“I am unaware of many of the details surrounding my former apprentice’s last days,” he conceded. “The Jedi did not share, and I did not press.” That the recoil from their latent bond, which he thought amicably severed at the end of their relationship, had been _agonizing_ was something he didn’t mention.

Skywalker pursed his lips. “You know he was killed by a _Sith_ , right?” he asked, eyes steely. “And you joined them anyways?”

Dooku rolled his eyes. “We all must transgress our personal mores in war,” he said, “you yourself have pledged your service to a Council that does not, and I quote, ‘like you’.”

“That’s totally different,” Skywalker shot back. “I’m doing what’s right, for the good of the Republic and the Galaxy. You’re just—“ he made a large, vague gesture with both hands. “— _evil_.”

Dooku massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, I can see why Qui-Gon was fond of you. He had a soft place in his heart for lower-order beings.”

“Hah! Obi-Wan beat you to that line years ago,” Skywalker replied, breezily. There was something underlying his voice that was less casual than he intended.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Dooku half-sighed, leaning back. “One half of the fabled _Team_. The Negotiator. The only Jedi to kill a Sith in a thousand years,” he mused aloud. “Qui-Gon certainly did well for himself there. What a fine Sith Apprentice he would have made!”

Skywalker’s face flushed red with anger, but Dooku cut him off. “Please, try and contain yourself for at least one minute. I have no intention of luring your beloved Master away. He grows more and more obnoxious each time we meet—a direct result of time spent with you, I would imagine.”

For some inexplicable reason, Skywalker brightened at that. “Obi-Wan is as wise as Master Yoda and as powerful as Master Windu,” he boasted. The Jedi glowed with affection in the Force. “He wouldn’t even think of joining someone like _you_.”

Dooku raised both eyebrows. “It sounds like you are just as attached to him as you are to Senator Amidala.”

Skywalker went pale, his eyes wide. He slammed up his mental shields, but his physical reaction was damning enough.

“You are! _Really_ , Skywalker!” Dooku wasn’t sure what about this aggravated him so—he wasn’t even _pleased_ that he’d found yet another of Skywalker’s weaknesses. This was just— _sloppy_.  Was the Jedi really incapable of seeing what was happening? Were they really going to make it _that easy_ for Sidious?

_Strong words coming from a man who didn’t notice his master was going to have him killed._

“Did you two even bother to sever your training bond?” Dooku demanded, pushing that thought aside. Skywalker glanced down, unable to meet Dooku’s gaze. “This is actually unbelievable. You two, bordering on codependency beneath the Council’s very nose…”

Skywalker raised his chin, defiantly. “I’m still more than a Jedi than you ever were,” he said. The strength of his words was undercut by the way his voice shook.

“You are out of control,” Dooku admonished. “You regularly give into you fear and your anger, you indulge in attachments- you’re not longer even tempted by the Dark Side, are you? You touch it every day without realizing it. You are beyond flirting with a fall, Skywalker. You are on the very cusp—“ Dooku paused.  He wasn’t sure Skywalker was listening anymore. The boy’s hands were curled into fists, but they were visibly trembling.

“You’re _wrong_ ,” he said. “You don’t—know—about me, or Obi-Wan, or Padme or anyone. I…when the war is over, everything is going to be fine. And it _is_ almost over. The Chancellor—“

“You think you can trust Palpatine?” Dooku snorted. Perhaps he was revealing his hand here—playing just as recklessly as Skywalker—but he couldn’t help it. There was a high, piercing call echoing throughout the Force, one it seemed only he could hear. He pushed.

He pushed too hard.

“ _Of course I can_!” Skyawlker shouted, bordering on a scream. “He’s _there_ for me! Ever since I got here, even when no one else—the Chancellor is my friend!” the boy was hysterical. “He’s the _only_ one I can trust!”

Skywalker shut his mouth with an almost audible snap. The two of them, Jedi and Sith, stared at each other in total silence—Skywalker horrified by the weight of his admission, and Dooku equally perturbed. There was something _wrong_ about all of this—something outside of the clash between Jedi and Sith, the Republic and the Confederacy. If he was inclined to whimsy, he might have said it was an affront to his sense of honor.

“Skywalker…” he began, slowly, for once at a total loss for words. He reached forward, but the boy flinched back. He was actually _skittish_.

“I…” Skywalker started, hesitant. What he was about to say, Dooku would never know. In that instant, the lights in his cell flared back to full brightness, and both of them started when the ray shields opened to reveal Master Fisto.

“Anakin,” he said, “we were unable to raise you on your commlink. Is everything alright in here?”

“Uh, y-yes,” the younger Jedi recovered, straightening. “Just having some technical issues on my end. I’m actually going to go have it repaired once I’m no longer needed here…”

“Lucky you, I’m your relief,” Fisto said, with that irritating smile of his. Skywalker gave a quick bow, more like a short bob of the head, and fled the cell without another word. Dooku cursed inwardly as he watched the Jedi slip out of his grasp-- just when he’d been so close to…something.

 If Fisto noticed the tension lingering in Skywalker’s wake, he didn’t comment on it.

“Dooku,” the Jedi Master said, eyes narrowing, “why aren’t you wearing cuffs?”

* * *

 

Later that night, Dooku paced in his cell. It was a highly disappointing endeavor—he could only take about three steps in either direction, hardly conductive to releasing his pent-up energy. His thoughts were agitated, persistent, leaving him unable to sleep—or worse, put his brainpower to anything useful. He stopped, covering his face with his hands, forbidding himself for shouting in frustration.

 _I need to talk to Skywalker_.

Literal days ago, he would never have dreamed he would think those words in that particular order. But here he was, close to actual madness over his inability to reach his most hated enemy.

 _One thing, there is, that tried, you have not_ , he imagined Master Yoda’s voice saying. Dooku gritted his teeth. He couldn’t escape the little troll, it seemed—and even worse, he was right. There was one desperate, ludicrous option open to him.

He settled onto the bunk, folding his legs and hands before him into the most basic of meditative poses. He’d avoided this particular meditation for years—not just because it was a distinctly Jedi technique. The desired effect was also exceptionally difficult to achieve, even for an accomplished Force-user such as himself. But it required only a trickle of Force energy—just as much as he was able to access in with Force-dampening cuffs on.

Dooku closed his eyes, taking deep, measured breaths. _The air I breathe is transformed upon exhale_ , he thought, running the words through his mind like worn beads through his hands _. Each breath is a transformative act. My body works at the slightest of levels—there is no creation or destruction, only transformation. The atoms I reconfigure were born in the heart of a star.  I am a being of the universe and this body contains a universe. The rhythm of our existence is infinite. The limits of our perception are only illusions._

_I am all things._

He began the litany again, sinking deeper in the dark pool beneath his consciousness. His breaths were longer, coming slower and slower each time. The monotony of the mantra lulled him to a place deeper than sleep, somewhere far more secret. Something flickered outside his eyelids. When he opened them, he was standing before his own still form.

 _Excellent,_ he thought, immensely pleased, _if somewhat unnerving_. He reached out to touch his physical body, but his hand—pale and ghostly—simply slid through. He would be unable to affect the material world, it seemed.

But he could pass through the ray shields with ease, and that was more far important.

The halls of the Temple were quiet at this late hour—and made even more eerie by the strange filter he perceived them through. The air around him was hazy, as if the Temple had been plunged underwater, and the few he passed appeared as luminescent blurs, their features obscured by dancing light. Dooku quickened his pace, headed towards what he hoped was still the quarters for Knights living in residence. The Forced urged him on, ringing in his ears with a clarity he’d never experienced before—

 _Come and see_.

Dooku knew he was in the right place well before he saw the plaque reading “Skywalker” on the door. The Force rippled violently here, its currents running counter to the serene flow of the rest of the Temple. Dooku passed through the door easily, but with a jolt realized he hand’t actually arrived in the knight’s quarters—instead he was nowhere. The dark, hazy world was replaced by a bright grey plane shroud in mist, clouds of fog parting at his step. In the distance he saw a figure— _Skywalker_ —and he took off towards him at a light jog.

He called out to the Jedi, but Skywalker couldn’t hear him. Instead, he was enraptured by a very pregnant Padme Amidala.

“The baby is kicking, Ani,” she said, smiling gently. “Do you want to feel?”

 _Oh, you fool_ , Dooku thought to himself. He had assumed he no longer had the capacity to still be shocked by Skywalker’s transgressions—and his assumption was unbelievably wrong. _You colossal, incomparable oaf_! He wanted to shout, but his words would be wasted here.

Skywalker, mesmerized, laid his gloveless prosthetic against the apex of Amidala’s belly-- but jerked his hand back, horrified, as the senator’s body began to dissolve beneath his touch. He shouted, and she screamed in pain, but it was too late—the blight spread from where he had laid his hand against her, as though his touch was acid. Without thinking he grabbed her by her shoulders, and they began to disappear as well, consumed by the corrosive effect of his contact. She screamed and screamed, crying out for Anakin to help her, but he couldn’t-- no one could. The Jedi could only watch, in frozen horror, as his love turned to ash.

“Anakin, what’s going on here?” Both Dooku and Skywalker whipped around, There stood Obi-Wan Kenobi, arms folded across his chest. “Master!” the knight cried out, relieved, but he inadvertently reached out and brushed his fingers against Obi-Wan’s chest—the barest touch was enough to start the process once again.

“What have you done?” the Jedi asked, as Skywalker’s corrosion ate away at his flesh. Skywalker watched, in mute horror, as his master began to deteriorate. “Anakin, what have you done?” Skywalker put his hands against his temples, his breath coming thick and fast.

“Master?” Anakin turned yet again, to where his wayward padawan stood, looking up at him with large, trusting eyes.

“Ahsoka!” he shouted, scrambling back. “Don’t come near me!” But the little togruta did, matching his steps with slow deliberateness.

“It was always too late for me, Master,” she said, taking Skywalker’s hand and placing it against her cheek. She stared up at him, he words carrying the weight of judgement: “From the moment we met, it was too late.” The acid ate away her face, leaving a skull set with blue eyes. “For all of us, from the moment we met…”

Her form melted, twisting into the nothingness of the mist surrounding them. The grey realm was silent except for the sound of Skywalker’s ragged breathing, coming so quick and fast Dooku feared he might collapse.

“Anakin,” the Count said, picking his way gingerly to the boy’s side. “Listen to me. What you are experiencing right now is not real. You need to calm down…”

But Anakin didn’t hear him. He doubled over, wrapping his arms around his stomach, almost panting. There was a light sheen of sweat on his face. Dooku felt a tremble in the Force—there was a rumbling, grinding sound, like two blast doors being wrenched apart. Skywalker was a maelstrom of barely contained energy; any wrong move and he would snap.

“Listen to me,” Dooku repeated. He kneeled down next to the boy, reaching out to touch his shoulder—but his hand slid right through. “You are dreaming, Skywalker. This is only a dream. You need to wake up.” The boy gasped desperately for air, not heeding Dooku’s words.

“Wake up, Skywalker!” the Count shouted, angrily. “You have to wake up! The Chancellor is the Sith Lord! _You have to wake up--!_ ”

 Without warning, Dooku’s body seized up as an arc of electricity tore through him. His words were strangled in his throat as he convulsed. The grey world winked in and out, and he found himself flying backwards, away from Skywalker.

 _Not yet_ \--!

Dooku’s eyes snapped open, and he took a huge, involuntary gasp. His cell was a flurry of activity, with a medic standing over him, defibrillator pads at the ready.

“Dooku! Can you hear me?”

“Put those…down…” he wheezed, stubbornly. “What are you--?”

“Your heart stopped,” the medic said, eyeing him warily. “You were _dead_ for just over a minute.”

Dooku supposed that later he would feel the after-effects of a yet another brush with death. Now, with adrenalin pounding in his veins, having come so close to tipping the scales in favor of—someone, not him, but he found that strangely tolerable-- he was only annoyed.

“I would hope,” he ground out, “the Jedi Order still had the principles to let a man of my age die with some semblance of dignity!”

* * *

 

Sidious frowned. He was mildly concerned by how pale and withdrawn his future apprentice was looking these days. The boy was soft, his mind gave beneath his suggestions like a beautiful ripe fruit, but if he grew _too_ soft and he would splatter when he fell.

“Does something trouble you, Anakin?” he asked, with a gentle smile. _Soon_ , he promised himself.  Soon, he would be able to drop all pretenses. _Patience_.

“I, uh,” the boy shook his head, loose curls swaying. “No, Chancellor. I’m just—sorry I couldn’t meet you at the Opera House yesterday.”

Ah, yes, the Temple lockdown following the failure of his assassin. An insult to his injury, as they said. Admittedly, his plan had been carried out in haste, and he had not taken the time to adequately consider the consequences. A foolish mistake—one he would not make again.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, waving his hand in a gracious but regal gesture. “Your duty responsibilities to the Order are paramount, I understand.” Anakin flinched at that. Good. “I am sorry you had such a trying time yourself, being shut away with Count Dooku for so long.”

Anakin didn’t meet his gaze, looking even more distraught. _That_ didn’t make Sidious happy at all. _What is my useless former apprentice playing at in there?_ He snarled to himself. When the time came he would make sure Kenobi _suffered_ for blundering into his beautiful web and tangling it so utterly. He needed Tyrannus dead, and he needed him dead _yesterday_.

“It’s fine,” Anakin replied, softly. “Soon the Council will be finished interrogating Dooku, and he can be brought to justice.”

Sidious smiled genuinely at that. The utility of Tyrannus’ death would be lost, of course, but he’d never had one of his apprentices publicly executed by a civilian government before. It could be… _thrilling_ , in its novelty.

“The Jedi Council seems to have an… _unusual_ interest in Dooku’s wellbeing, don’t you think?” he asked.

“He’s a prisoner,” the boy replied, “and the Jedi treat all prisoners equally…even when they don’t deserve it,” he muttered, looking down. “It’s part of the Code.”

“Ah, you are absolutely right,” Palpatine said, with perfectly faked agreement. “Though, lately…” he trailed off. Anakin looked up, curious.

“Lately,” he said, with theatrical weariness, “it seems the Jedi cleave to their principles less and less . Oh, not you of course,” he put a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “But I’m afraid the Council…well, you’ve witnessed firsthand how loose they’ve been with their own morality, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Anakin’s lips barely moved. “Chancellor, I…” Palpatine moved in, the picture of fatherly understanding.

“What did they ask you to do, Anakin?”

“They want me…to spy on you,” he forced out. “I don’t…know what to say.”

“To them?”

“No! To you! I…I’m sorry…” Anakin clamped his jaw tight, like he might be sick if he didn’t. “I’m… so _sorry_.”

Palpatine tried his best to appear gracious and forgiving, but he was honestly a little put-off by the boy’s… _display_. Anakin was dripping with such saccharine earnestness it made his teeth hurt. Surely he would leave this kind of childish behavior behind when he embraced the power of the Dark Side.

“It is as I suspected,” he said, “the Jedi are moving against me. They want you to be an unwitting pawn in their game.”

“What do you mean?!”

“Sure you can sense it,” the fish was on the line--now to reel him in. “The Council has come to enjoy the power they gained over the course of the war.”

“No, that’s not…the Jedi only think of serving others.” The nervous, flighty look was back. “The Council has no desire—“

“Think back to your earliest lessons,” he admonished. _Surely you remember the grit and anguish and the smell of blood? You remember Tatooine, the only honest planet in the Galaxy?_ “All who gain power fear to lose it.”

Anakin watched him, blue eyes locked on him in an unblinking stare. Palpatine had waited decades. He could wait a little longer.

_Steady hand on the rod. Let’s bring my monster out of the depths._

“Tell me, Anakin, have you ever heard the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?”

* * *

 

 _The power to stop people from dying_. The words rattled in Anakin’s head, filling the silence with a compulsive echo. _The power to stop people from dying power to stop people from dying people from dying the power the power_ —

“How can that be?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“There are many powers that exist beyond the limited doctrine of the Jedi,” the Chancellor replied, shrugging elegantly. “Surely you remember your encounters with the Nightsisters?”

Anakin shuddered. He needed that power. He needed it—“is that where one could learn this power? On Dathomir?”

Palpatine shook his head, sadly. “No,” he said. “The knowledge was obtained by Plagueis alone. Only the Sith can wield it.”

Anakin felt something give way in his heart. Only the Sith—but he couldn’t—the Sith were—

“In truth, the Sith and the Jedi are similar in almost every way, including their quest for greater power.” The Chancellor gave Anakin a long, meaningful look. “The difference between the two is that the Sith are no afraid of the Dark Side of the Force.”

 _Not afraid_ …

What would it be like to be not afraid? Anakin wasn’t sure he remembered. The war, the losses, the constant fearful watching of the skies, checking his speeder and his ship for bombs, last minute escapes, the smell of singed hair as they were thrown from a blast—the smell of burning flesh—he could make it all go away—

 _I want that_ , he thought, and his heart was filled with greed.

“The Sith are not afraid of the Dark Side,” Palpatine repeated, watching Anakin out of the corner of his eye, “and that makes them stronger.”

 _I want to be stronger_.

The Jedi were wrong about so many things. They were wrong about attachment, and his love for Padme. They drove Ahsoka away, they wanted him to spy on his friend and commit treason, they were ready to let Padme _die_ —maybe they were wrong about the Dark Side, too. Not all of it, just _parts_. The words were right there, just on the tip of his tongue— _please, Chancellor, tell me where I can learn this power_ —when he felt the Force shift, tilting crazily, his stomach rolled and he was afraid he was going to be sick—

_Anakin, listen to me!_

What was that?

_You have to wake up!_

He’d heard these words before, in a dream, maybe…

_The Chancellor is the Sith Lord!_

Anakin gasped, feeling the words throb in his heart, like the deep bass of a Republic cruiser’s engine going to lightspeed. No. _No_. That was _crazy_. That would mean the Chancellor had been lying to him, and he handn’t been—the Chancellor fought for the good of the people. The Sith Lord had started a war—

All of it. The war was a sham.

No! He’d given three years of his life to winning this war—his marriage, his padawan, so many people, so many of his men—they were fighting for something, it was right, it _had_ to be right, if this was a lie then everything he’d given…

Anakin couldn’t breathe. His throat worked by no air was coming in, no sound could escape. It was a lie. It was all a lie. Palpatine wanted him—wanted him to join the Sith, he was a liar, Anakin would never—

And Padme would die, she would die because he couldn’t do it, either she died or the Jedi fell there was no way, no way they could exist together, the Sith Lord and the Jedi, who were almost decimated anyways Padme was going to die and it was all his fault—

“ _ANAKIN_!”

* * *

 

The boy came out of his fit with a start. He stared, wild eyed, unsure of where he was.

 _What was that?_ For a moment everything had been going smoothly, beautifully, and then the Force erupted around Anakin, as if an incredibly localized, entirely extra-planar hurricane suddenly materialized in his office. He’d been unable to reach the boy, thrown back again and again by the sheer power of the Force-storm. Anakin writhed madly, cradled in the heart of the maelstrom, his eyes rolled back into his head.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Anakin snapped back to reality, breathing hard. His eyes were huge, wild.

“Anakin?” he asked, suppressing his own indignation as hard as he could _. Never in my studies have I encountered such a thing_. “Dear boy, are you alright? I’m afraid you were having something kind of fit…”

Anakin didn’t respond. He just stared, panting heavily, despair rolling off him in waves. The room almost stank with the Jedi’s fear—strong enough to leave a sour taste on Sidious’ tongue.

_This is the result I wanted, yes, but why—_

“I have to go,” Anakin blurted, standing up so suddenly he actually knocked his chair over. “I—I need to—go. _Now_.”

“Please, sit down, at least tell me what—“

But Anakin was gone, actually running out of the door before Sidious could stop him. The Sith Lord sat back in his chair, fuming. What in the all the reaches of the Galaxy was _that_? He needed the boy pliable, not… _fragile_!

 _Was this this the work of Tyrannus?_ Sidious snarled silently, baring his teeth alone in his office. It didn’t seem possible, and yet…

If it was, he would make the petty little count rue the day he’d ever been given a Sith’s name.

* * *

 

There had been two shift changes since the Temple guards had found Dooku unconscious, and it appeared that Skywalker would not be returning any time soon. Dooku huffed in annoyance. None of his companions were as easy to torment—most ignored his entreaties, except Fisto, who thought he was _clever_ and answered all of Dooku’s questions with increasingly irrelevant Jedi maxims.

Of course, there was more than Dooku’s personal entertainment at stake. He could feel the currents of the Force shifting, dark clouds looming on the horizon—there was an oppressive weight pressing down on the Temple. How the other Jedi seemed to not notice was beyond him. The pressure made his head ache. It was starting to get to him, being trapped in this abominably tiny cell with the weight of destiny bearing down all around him. He wanted to jump out of his skin.

Dooku’s head snapped up when the ray shields parted, but he had to bite down hard against his tongue to keep from groaning when it was Obi-Wan Kenobi who appeared. The Jedi Master was fully recovered from their duel on the Invisible Hand, and apparently even more self-assured than ever.

How _wonderful_.

“Your Grace,” Kenobi greeted him, with an incline of the head and a smirk. “I trust these accommodations are to your liking?”

 _So much potential_ , Dooku thought, remorsefully, _only to be subsumed by the worst qualities of Skywalker and Qui-Gon._

“Ah,” Kenobi said, reaching beneath Dooku’s bunk, “and that’s where our dejarik board has gotten to!” He unfolded the game against the crisp white sheets of the prison bed before settling himself, cross-legged, across from the Count.

“I hope you didn’t go to all this trouble just to find someone to play holochess with,” Kenobi smarmed, despite Dooku’s silence. This brashness was entirely Skywalker. Dooku considered rejecting Kenobi’s offer out of principle.

“Master Kenobi, if I wanted the company of brainless heads with limited sentience I could have stayed with the droid army,” he replied, smoothly. After all, if the Jedi was determined to offer himself up so willingly, then by all means.

“Charming as ever,” Kenobi shot back, breezily. “I hope you remain in such high spirits when you’re brought before the Senate for war crimes.”

“Ah, Master Jedi, do you really believe this cell can hold me that long?”

“It’s held you long enough, O Dark Lord.”

The absolute worst of Qui-Gon. Such unbearable _cheek_. Dooku pursed his lips in a thin line and didn’t reply.

“Even as we speak, Master Windu is closing in on Greivous,” Kenobi went on, considering his pieces carefully. His opening move in both games was bold, just shy of reckless. “Your armies will be routed. Whatever help you’re waiting for is not coming—if anything, you’re more likely to get another unpleasant calling card—sent from your Master, I suppose.”

Dooku made a reckless move of his own. “There are always two-- a master, and an apprentice. Tell me, Kenobi, where is your apprentice?”

Kenobi’s good humor slipped—but just barely. “Anakin has gone above and beyond the call of duty in babysitting you, Count.

“So you don’t know.”

“No wonder Ventress was always so ill-tempered, if you think being a good master means _hovering_.”

Dooku snorted at that. “Ventress kept no secrets from me.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Is this where you try and drive a wedge between me and Anakin, play us off one another? Clumsy, very clumsy—I expected more from you.”

“I would have expected more insight into the portents of the Living Force from Qui-Gon Jinn’s apprentice.” It was a cheap shot, but time was of the essence. Kenobi blanched.

“If you remembered Qui-Gon at all, you would never have taken the side of his murderer,” he replied, incensed. Kenobi had been thrown truly off-balance—a rare occurrence, but he recovered: “You must be getting forgetful in your old age.”

Dooku fixed Kenobi with an unamused stare. “Do _you_ remember your master? Your apprentice only knows him as the man who fought the Council on his behalf when you would not.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing with Anakin for all this time? Reminiscing about the glory days? No wonder he was so desperate to get a break.”

Dooku leaned forward, abandoning the pretense of the game. “Kenobi, there is a trap closing in around you—you and all of the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan sat back, a model of disbelief. “I’m sure there is. I always take advice on when to be paranoid from my sworn enemies.”

“But you can feel it, can’t you? There are ripples in the Force—the tide is changing.”

“In our favor. You’ve lost the war—it’s only a matter of days before the rest of your forces acknowledge that”

 “There is a storm brewing. Its eye is fixed on your padawan.”

“Anakin is the Chosen One,” Kenobi was unruffled. “He is fated to bring balance to the Force. Why else—“

“Your faith in your apprentice is misplaced!” Dooku snapped. That was enough to finally rile Kenobi. His blue eyes met Dooku’s, full of fire.

“Anakin is stronger and braver than any Jedi I’ve ever known,” he proclaimed. “He will be the one to win the war. He hasn’t even reached his full potential yet, and already he dispatched _you_. Your master will fall just as easily.”

Kenobi might as well have written “I am proud of him and utterly compromised” in the sky above Coruscant. Dooku shook his head in incredulity.

“You actually believe that,” he said, somehow softer than he meant to. “You are _attached_ —and its blinded you so utterly—“

“I don’t think I need a lecture on the Jedi Code from a Sith Lord,” Kenobi cut him off. “If you want favorable testimony during your trial, this isn’t the way to go about—“

“Listen to me!” Dooku had actually lost his temper. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shouted at someone. “There is something _wrong_ with your padawan, Obi-Wan. He is not well.”

“And you care about Anakin’s wellness so much—“

“I have nothing to gain from this,” Dooku was fighting to keep a desperate edge out of his voice, “except the chance to foil the plans of the man who wants me dead.”

“You think the Sith will come for Anakin?” Obi-Wan was still cocksure, but a note of uncertainty crept into his voice.

“I am telling you he is in dangerously close to a fall.”

“ _What_?!”

“You heard me.”

 “No. No, not Anakin,” Kenobi stood abruptly, shaking his head. “Only in your dreams, Count. Anakin is—“

“Anakin needs you,” Dooku said, with a softness that surprised even him. “You can sense it, can’t you? Trust your instincts.”

Obi-Wan shook his head again, torn.

“Kenobi,” Dooku said, in his firmest teaching voice. “Where is your padawan right now?”

Obi-Wan paused, reaching out in the Force despite himself

“Kenobi, _where is your padawan_?”

Obi-Wan went stark white, his eyes wide with shock and fear—but not for himself. “ _Anakin_ ,” he whispered. Whatever he sensed, it was worse than even Dooku had thought. He turned stiffly, marching through the ray shields, only pausing to tell the guards outside to send another Master—there was something he must attend to. _Now_.

Dooku sat back on his bunk, considering. He’d made his play— at best it was a foolish mistake; even success would have no benefit to him whatsoever. But there was nothing to be done about that now. He would simply have to live with the consequences of his _sentiment_.

The former Jedi, and more recently former Sith drew himself into a meditative pose and settled in to wait.

* * *

 

Obi-Wan tore through the halls of the Temple, following Anakin’s presence like a beacon. He’d waited until he cleared the hall of the prison wing to begin sprinting, hoping he wouldn’t be seen but ready to take that risk. He actually shoved Saesee Tinn out of the way in his frantic scramble—he’d have to deal with that later, but right now he didn’t even spare his rudeness a second though. Anakin’s distress was the only thing on his mind—nothing else came close to mattering. He was _consumed_ by it.

It wasn’t that he’d been _ignorant_ of Anakin’s feelings—they’d never severed their training bond, after all, and were more closely attuned than most former master and padawan pairs because of it, but lately they’d been distant. It was the war, if he was going to be honest about it. The past few months especially had been wearing on Anakin, casting a weary shadow on the usual luminescence of his once-student’s Force presence. They were all suffering, and Anakin was an adult now—if he chose to withdraw, to take some space for himself, then Obi-Wan wouldn’t press. With all that had happened, he hadn’t thought to reach beyond the surface, into the heart of their bond—until Dooku…

 _I was so blind_ , he thought, the condemnation running through his head over and over again. _How could I not see this_? Dooku had been right. He hadn’t been listening to his instincts—it had been right there in front of him, the whole time, and he—

No time for that now. There as only one thing he could do—he had to get to Anakin.

He worked his way through the maze of the Temple—this section had been abandoned for at least a decade before the war, a relic of the time when the Order had numbered in the tens of thousands. Anakin was close—and so was the darkness. He hadn’t sensed it before—no, that wasn’t right. It was like he’d become used to the oppressive weight of shadows, always just out of the corner of his eye, and it had taken someone else pointing them out for him to see them clearly. Anakin’s presence was shot through with darkness, he was brittle to the touch and ready to crack at any moment—

And he was in _pain_.

Obi-Wan was close, so close. He drew near to an abandoned maintenance closet, hesitating. He flared in the Force, lightly, just enough that Anakin would know he was there. Panicked, his apprentice slammed his shields into place. Obi-Wan grimaced. Not good.

“Anakin,” he called, leaning against the door. “I know you’re in there. Please let me in.”

No response. Obi-Wan sighed. He was little surprised at the calm that came over him, blanketing his earlier panic—just a days earlier he would have been breaking down the door, demanding Anakin stop being a child for just one _second_ and let him in--

But this was different, somehow. He felt deeply, in a way he didn’t entirely understand, that if he pushed too hard Anakin would break.

_Trust your instincts._

“I’m sure you’ve done something very clever to the door,” he said, with that gentleness he’d forgotten he had. “It would be easier if you would just let me in, and I didn’t have to destroy Temple property.” For a long moment, Anakin didn’t respond.

“Go away,” he sounded choked. “I just…need to be alone right now.”

 _Your padawan needs you_ , Dooku’s words rang in his head. Obi-Wan didn’t even think twice about taking advice from a Sith and war criminal. He reached out in the Force, throwing his consciousness deep into the mechanisms that kept the supply closet locked. The door slid open with a metallic groan, and what Obi-Wan saw inside made his heart ache.

Anakin had wedged himself into the corner of the closet, his legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees. His face was a wreck—swollen and red, like he’d been crying in here for _hours_. His eyes stood out even more vividly blue against the cracked red veins of his sclera.

Obi-Wan inched closer, taking one cautious step at a time, like he might with a frightened animal. “Anakin,” he said, softly, “what’s wrong?”

Anakin shook his head, burying it in his knees. “Won’t you tell me?” Again, he shook ‘no’. Obi-Wan slid down the wall, joining his padawan on the floor.

“Then I’ll just have to stay here until you do.” He reached out to lay a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, but his padawan shrank away from the touch. “Anakin, you know you can tell me anything.”

Those words brought on a fresh wave of tears. “No,” he apprentice choked out. “No, I _can’t_.” That admission hurt Obi-Wan more than he cared to admit.

“Why not?”

“Because…” he sensed a weakening in Anakin’s resolve—it felt like the quake of a dam ready to give way. “I haven’t been—I’m not a good Jedi!” Anakin’s voice cracked, and Obi-Wan was worried his heart might as well.

“That’s not true,” he said, inching himself closer. “You’re the Jedi I could only dream of being. You are strong, and wise…and I am so _proud_ of you, Anakin.”

That made Anakin look up at him, meet his gaze. “You wouldn’t be…” he bit his lip, cutting off his admission.

 _You would leave_. The words hung between them, unspoken but loud, so loud in the Force.

“Search your feelings,” Obi-Wan admonished, as softly as he could. “There’s nothing you can say that would make me abandon you.”

Those were the words. Anakin stared at his master for a half second, his eyes full of desperate hope, before wrapping his arms around his master’s chest and burying his face in Obi-Wan’s tunic. Obi-Wan almost drew back, startled, but kept it together long enough to place his hand against the back of Anakin’s head, gently stroking his hair.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong now?”

For a moment, Anakin stayed where he was, his body shaking in the aftermath of his sobs. “Padme…” he started, barely audible. He raised his head up, looking so unbearably fragile.

“I…I gave Padme a baby,” he said, guilt written all over his face.

“You gave--?” Oh. _Oh_. Oh no. _Anakin, what have you done?_ Would absolutely have been his first response, under different circumstances. Now, that thought had to wait behind his heaviest shield.

“And now…” Anakin could barely talk without his voice breaking. “Now…my baby is— _killing her_ —“

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows, alarmed. “What makes you say that?”

“I had a vision….just like with mom…” Oh _no_. “Padme’s going to die and I can’t—I can’t save her! She’ll die and it will be _all my fault_ —“

Obi-Wan wrapped both his arms around Anakin, pulling him in tight. Anakin’s breath hitched, and he released the last of his shields. Obi-Wan just barely weathered the wave that slammed into him: all of Anakin’s fear, grown into full-blown, mindless panic. He could hear whispers, none of them coherent—all of his apprentice’s secret fears, fear of failure, of being ejected from the Order, of failing his wife, his master—

 _Oh, Anakin_.

“The Chancellor says he knows the power to stop people from dying,” Anakin blurted out, tears streaming down his face. Obi-Wan froze. Palpatine had made a number of disturbing moves in the past few months, accumulating more and more power for himself, but all that power was strictly _political_.

“Why…why would he know that, Anakin?”

“Because…because its _him_ , Obi-Wan. _He’s the Sith Lord_.”

Obi-Wan’s blood ran cold. That couldn’t be right. It was absurd. Anakin wasn’t well, he was under a lot of pressure, he wasn’t thinking straight…but Obi-Wan could sense it, the horrible, hideous truth was right before him. It had been right in front of them the whole time.

 _We left Anakin alone with him_ , he thought, nearly panicking himself. For years, he’d left his charge in the hands of the puppet master. For what? A few hours of quiet, so he could grieve Qui-Goin alone? Stupid. Selfish. _Stupid_.

“Master?” Anakin looked up at him, uncertain. “Are you…angry with me?”

 Obi-Wan hesitated. He wouldn’t lie, he was more than a little disappointed. He was hurt that Anakin had lied to him. It could be years before they felt the full ramifications of his padawan’s actions. People could have died.

Just how close did he come to accepting the Chancellor’s offer?

 But Obi-Wan had made a promise. If the Council took everything from him for the choices he made now, he would still be a man of his word. He wouldn’t abandon Anakin.

“No, I’m not mad. I…” Obi-Wan cupped Anakin’s face in his hand, brushing away an errant tear with his thumb. “In the years we have known each other I have…” he took a steadying breath. “I’ve become rather attached to you.”

The words sounded foolish the instant they left his mouth, but Anakin brightened. After all their years together, everything they’d shared and sacrificed over the course of the war, he knew the true weight behind the simple declaration. Anakin grew brighter and brighter still, the lingering shadows in his presence vaporized by his happiness. Obi-Wan resisted the urge to cover his eyes against brilliant light he couldn’t actually see.

“We have to focus,” he said, standing. “There—there are many things that will have to happen. I can’t shield you from everything, but I promise I’ll be at your side for whatever happens.” He stood, resisting the urge to groan at the stiffness of his muscles, and brushed some of the cobwebs from his tunic. Anakin still sat in his corner, happiness dimmed with uncertainty. Obi-Wan held out his hand.

“Before anything, we have to deal with the Sith,” he said. “Millions are already dead. This is a duty we cannot abandon.” Anakin still looked up at him, unsure—maybe a little afraid. “I promise you that once the Chancellor is dealt with—“

“He’s my _friend_ ,” Anakin said, cutting him off. “Or…I thought he was. I don’t know if I can just--” he gestured helplessly.

Obi-Wan allowed his compassion to override his disbelief. An eyeroll would help no one right now.  _He_ _really believes that_ , he thought, pushing down a sudden note of fear _. He really doesn’t see how thoroughly he was used._

 _We came so close to losing him_ …

Obi-Wan went down on a knee before Anakin. “He wasn’t,” he said, as gently as he could. “He was using you, Anakin, do you understand? He’s done more terrible things than we may ever know, and he wanted you to help him do more.” Anakin bit his lip, looking away.

“I know it’s not fair to you,” Obi-Wan went on, “but you must be ready to do the right thing. You can sense it, can’t you? The Chancellor must fall. Trust the Force. Trust your instincts. Trust _me_.”

 He offered his hand. Anakin looked at it, and for a half second their world hung in the balance, precariously suspended between light and dark. Then he grasped in, and Obi-Wan felt warmth flood their bond.

He stood once again, hauling Anakin to his feet. He pulled Anakin in close, embracing the man with his other arm. They stayed there for a too brief moment, drawing strength and reassurance from their bond and the press of their bodies. They only broke apart when Obi-Wan finally succumbed to the dust coating Anakin’s tunic sneezed.

“Really,” he huffed, wiping a hand across his nose while Anakin offered a weak smile. “Next time we need a chat, can’t we just meet in my quarters?”

* * *

 

Yoda hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. He’d merely come into Dooku’s cell, given a respectful nod in response to Dooku’s salutations before climbing into a chair (one not at all suited for his height, admittedly) and settling in. The watched each other, two venerable masters of the Force, leaders of rival disciplines.

“Nothing to say, have you?” Dooku finally asked, in a mockery of Yoda’s bizarre speech patterns. Yoda fixed him with a disbelieving look.

“Need words to achieve understanding, I do not,” he scolded, inadvertently slipping into his teaching voice. He looked a little sad. “Reveal truths to us, silence can. Understand _that_ , once you did.”

Dooku groaned internally. “I cannot imagine a greater waste of my time—and yours—than sitting here and revisiting padawan lessons.”

“Use the reminder, perhaps you could. Somewhere else to go, have you? Nothing but _time_ , have you now.”

“You know that’s not true. You can sense it, can’t you? Time is running out for all of us. The balance of the Force is changing.”

Yoda considered this carefully. “Tell Skywalker this, did you?”

“I made an attempt to warn the boy,” Dooku answered, truthfully. “But it would take an ion cannon to penetrate that skull of his.”

“Then choose him, why did you, as your confidant?”

Dooku made a noise of open derision at the term ‘confidant’. “Skywalker was the least likely to subject me to a lecture. Besides, the boy has been known to say things that are actually _interesting_ , from time to time.”

Yoda cocked his head. “And did he?”

 _Oh, you have no idea_. “What was said to me in confidence is not something I can share, O Grandmaster. Surely the Jedi have not turned to _gossip_ in these trying times?”

Yoda only replied with a soft “hrrmm”. There was silence between them once again.

“Unlike you, it is, to so speak highly of one as young as Skywalker,” he finally commented. “A softness, I sense in you. Most unusual.”

Dooku bristled. “Perhaps I am simply hoping he will succeed where I failed in destroying the Jedi Order’s crumbling, hidebound--”

“About _reform_ , this war was _not_ ,” Yoda cut him off, ears pinned back. What the war _was_ about, he didn’t get a chance to elaborate—his commlink buzzed urgently. With a last reproachful look at Dooku, Yoda brought the hologram to life.

“Master Yoda,” it was Kenobi. “We request your presence urgently.”

“Regarding what? Currently occupied, I am.”

Kenobi hesitated. “The identity of the Sith Lord. He’s here, on Coruscant. We must move _now_.” Yoda’s eyes widened for a brief second.

“On my way, I am,” he said, and extinguished the holo. He jumped to the floor, pausing before he turned to go.

“Know this, did you?”

“You never asked,” Dooku replied. Yoda huffed, and in an instant he was gone. Dooku sat back on his bunk.

This was the end game, then. The board was set, the pieces were moving—neither he nor Sidious could do anything to alter the trajectory of fate at this late hour. In truth, Dooku had never expected to be in _this_ position—locked away while destiny passed him by, ready to destroy the movement he had created. Perhaps it would be preferable to have died at Skywalker’s hand—no, even he didn’t believe that. If this oblique revenge was the best he could have against his former master, then that was simply that. One’s plans didn’t always come to fruition the way one envisioned. Who among them could have foreseen this ending, years ago, at the start of the war? The Jedi didn’t know they were pawns in this struggle for the fate of the Galaxy, just as much as the droid army, or the petty senators, or the clones—

 _The clones_.

 Dooku’s breath caught in his throat as a wave of icy realization washed over him. The Jedi still had no idea about the inhibitor chips—or the last, secret order programmed within them. Even if Palpatine lost today, he could still strike one deadly blow against the Order. All of the Masters would be occupied trying to destroy the Sith, and none would be able to stop the bloodbath in the Temple, just floors above him…

Dooku didn’t care how undignified he looked, banging on the walls of his cell and shouting to wake the dead. The ray shields parted and he was confronted by two Temple guards, their yellow pikes leveled at his chest.

“Remain quiet or be subdued,” the one on the right warned.

“I have to speak with the Grand Master. _Now_.”

“The Grand Master will speak to you when he chooses, and at no other time.”

“The fate of the Galaxy hinges on whether or not you listen to your betters and let me pass,” Dooku snarled.

The guards were unmoved. The elder Sith sighed, cracking his neck and settling into a fighting stance.

“Later, when you are nursing your wounds, remember I gave you a chance to do this the easy way,” he told them.

* * *

 

Anakin stood outside the door to the Chancellor’s office, shifting uneasily.

_“Anakin,” Obi-Wan had said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It may be best if you stay out here while we arrest Palpatine.” Anakin had protested, vigorously, but Obi-Wan squeezed his shoulder gently._

_“I know you are stronger than him,” he said, simply, and Anakin fell silent. “I believe in my heart you could defeat him. I trust you, Anakin—but he’s been playing with your mind for years, now. The last thing we need is to give him another chance to hurt you. Do you understand?” He didn’t, not fully—but he bit his lip and nodded in assent._

Now he was regretting letting Obi-Wan and Yoda go in without a fight. How long would it take to arrest the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic? Surely not this long. It felt like he’d been standing out here for hours. Anakin checked his chrono—ok, only a few minutes. Even so…maybe he should just—

The Force gave him just enough warning to raise his lightsaber before Dooku skidded around the corner into view. He looked rumpled, his hair mussed—and he was wielding a Temple Guard’s light pike. Where did that come from?!

“Dooku! Why aren’t you in your cell? How did you get into the Senate—?”

“There is no time for that,” Dooku cut him off, a frantic edge to his voice. “Let me pass. _Now_.”

“So you can join your master?” Anakin sneered, leveling his lightsaber on the Count. 

“He was going to have you _kill_ me!” Dooku exclaimed. “Listen to me—I have no loyalty to Sidious—“

“Sidious--?”

“—and if you do not let me pass, hundreds of Jedi are going to _die_ ,” he implored.   “He has a contingency plan, Anakin. Step aside.”

The boy hesitated, but lowered his lightsaber. “You think I should just trust you?”

“No, you really shouldn’t,” Dooku couldn’t help replying, “but you should _believe_ me”.

Without warning, he slammed the heel of his hand into Skywalker’s nose. The _crunch_ noise and the strangled yell of agony that followed was altogether satisfying, but Dooku couldn’t afford to take time to savor it. Skywalker was down for a half second, and that was all he needed.

Both Kenobi and Yoda stood only a few feet from Sidious, their weapons drawn. The Sith Master was apparently trying to play innocent still—his lightsaber remained concealed, and if not for the tendrils of dark energy snaking through the room he would have appeared as a harmless, if exasperated, old man.

“Even in your egregious overreach of the law, you cannot deny me legal representation,” he said. “I will only make one call, and then I will be happy to surrender myself to your custody—outrageous though these accusations may be.”

 What happened next could only have taken a few fractions of a second, but to Dooku it seemed as though they transpired in agonizing slow motion. Sidious’ thumb activated his comm link, and an image of a clone commander appeared before him—but Dooku knew his voice would reach every clone throughout the Galaxy. Sidious’ mouth opened, and his eyes flicked up and saw Dooku standing in the doorway. He paused, just long enough to smirk.

Dooku raised, activated, and _threw_ his stolen weapon in one smooth motion. Sidious snatched his hand away the barest instant before the yellow blade impaled his commlink, and both the weapon and the destroyed comm sailed out of grasp. Kenobi and Yoda were shouting at him, what he couldn’t say—and didn’t care.

“So,” Sidious’ friendly, warm Chancellor’s voice was gone. Instead, he spoke in that almost-croak Dooku knew from hours of holotransmissions. “You have thrown your lot in with the Jedi. How very _foolish_ of you,” in an instant he called his red blade to his hand. “You will not survive this encounter, my _former_ apprentice.”

Sidious gestured, and with no blade to defend himself Dooku took the brunt of his Force lightning. His awareness of the world around him dimmed as his gritted his teeth, trying to hold back his screams. As suddenly as it struck him the lightning receded—Dooku rolled to his side, forcing his eyes open, to see Kenobi and Yoda both occupying the Sith.

In private moments, Dooku regretted that he never had a chance to impart some of his wisdom of Kenobi when it came to the art of dueling. Qui-Gon’s apprentice truly was brilliant—the great duelist of his age—but he lacked a certain artfulness. Even so, he was an impressive sight, working in perfect sync with Yoda, hammering the Sith with a hail of blows. But even then, it wasn’t enough—it only took the barest fraction of a second, a blade just a millimeter too low, for Sidious to find leverage. He threw the dimunitive Grand Master into the window, causing it shatter. Kenobi shouted, almost incoherently, then made a fateful decision.

“Dooku!” he threw his lightsaber to the Count before taking to the window himself. Dooku caught it, almost dazed.

 _These truly are desperate times_ , he thought to himself, with a humor that did not quite match the situation. He ignited the blade, its fiery blue light strange in his hand. Every step, every movement in the room seemed to be significant, like his motions echoed throughout the entire Galaxy.

Dooku turned to the Sith Master, only to be blocked by Anakin. He stood before Sidious, blade held before him. The blue light made the blood covering his face look black. He was a fearsome sight.

“Move aside,” he said. Anakin didn’t budge. “What are you _doing_? He is the _Sith Lord_. Surely—“

“This isn’t right!” Anakin had that same look of desperate panic  Dooku had seen in the cell block. “He should go to trial. It’s—“

“Anakin,” Dooku asked, softly. “What did he promise you?” The boy’s resolve flickered, and for a moment, he just looked lost.

“I—“ he started. Sidious came forward, hovering just behind his would-be apprentice. “I need him—“

“What power did he promise you?” Dooku repeated. “Whatever it was, I’m telling you--it’s a lie. It’s a lie—all of it—it’s empty and hollow...” he wasn’t sure where these words were coming from. It felt like they had been drawn out of him, out from some secret place within himself he hadn’t known existed. Anakin wasn’t quite convinced.

“It’s not _worth_ it, Anakin!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Whatever he promised you, it isn’t worth it--!”

“How can you say that, when you—“

“ _Because I know it best_!”

For the first time, he felt as though Anakin was actually listening to what he was saying. His blade lowered, just a fraction.

“You can’t kill him. It’s not the Jedi way.”

“Then,” Dooku said, “it is a good thing I am not a Jedi.”

Sidious laid a hand on Anakin’s shoulder, in what might have been a reassuring gesture has he not immediately flooded the Jedi’s body with lightning. Anakin fell to the ground, writhing, and Sidious advanced on Dooku, murder in his eyes.

“So it is treachery,” he snarled.

“That is the way of the Sith, _Master_ ,” Dooku replied. They threw themselves into their battle, blade clashing against blade, in a series of movements almost too fast for the eye to follow. Sidious and Tyrannus had never studied the basics of combat together before—only the mysteries of the Dark Side. Sidious was unprepared for their match, and Dooku could see it in his eyes as he was pushed back, further and further.

“You think the Jedi will welcome you back with open arms?” Sidious rasped at him—he always was more adept in a duel of words rather than sabers. “You think you will be one of them?”

“No,” Dooku replied, with a level of calm he’d never felt before. He could see what he needed to do—he could see everything, as it would transpire: the end to the war, the reformation of the Jedi—the ultimate dissolution of the Sith. He felt… _serenity_.

 He lowered his blade, and Sidious struck, gleefully, like a viper. Dooku let out a strangled cry, almost dropping his own borrowed weapon, before drawing on the last of his strength—now, now, do it now—and driving it into Sidious’ heart.

“I’ll be _dead_.” It was hardly witty, but Dooku felt lightheaded enough to chuckle at his own, morbid not-joke. He fell to his knees, Kenobi’s lightsaber falling from his grasp. He fell backwards, but was caught—Skywalker hovered over him, looking down on him with a kind of reverence.

“It was you,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “You…you warned me. And you—but _why_?”

“It’s the way of the Sith…to kill their masters,” he rasped. It was fortunate he was dying, his side was nothing but agony. “And every Jedi…secretly covets…a chance to…avenge their padawan.”

“But—“

“Sentiment,” Dooku said, but he didn’t have enough strength for the accompanying eye roll. “You feel…so _often_ , Skywalker. I cannot say…I envy you…”

The boy looked distraught. “What does that _mean_?”

Dooku used the last of his strength to look over. Kenobi and Yoda stood, watching reverently over the scene. His master inclined his head to him, but said nothing. He didn’t need to.

“You… are a fool,” Dooku gasped. His vision was dark around the edges. “But perhaps…one we need most…”

* * *

 

When he opened eyes, he found himself in that same bright-grey plane of swirling mist he’d encountered Skywalker in. With a jolt, he sat upright—he should not be opening his eyes at _all_.

“Yes,” a voice said, with a trace of amusement. “There are some things even you have yet to learn.” Dooku turned, unable to believe his eyes.

“Qui-Gon,” he breathed. His apprentice inclined his head, with the same respectful acknowledgement Yoda had. “Then-?”

“We are dead,” Qui-Gon said, “but we are not _finished_.” He offered a hand, and Dooku took it, coming unsteadily to his feet. “I have much to share with you.”

Dooku didn’t answer—he couldn’t. There were so many things between them, so many things he’d left unfinished. He didn’t know where to start. He reached out, taking a lock of Qui-Gon’s hair between his fingers.

“And eternity with this,” he sighed, resignedly.

Qui-Gon laughed.


End file.
